Livers and fires and poems, oh my.

There was a fire in the dumpster in the courtyard outside my apartment. Fire truck came, only after it was quite completely ablaze. By the time I went out to eat and came back, the firemen were still standing by the extinguished dumpster smoking cigarettes and THROWING THE BUTTS IN THE DUMPSTER........ seems counterproductive.

My host mom fed me what I, wrongly... so wrongly, thought was beef stroganoff. The texture was off... and the flavor slightly different. But I didn't think much of it, because frankly all food tastes a little off in Russia, if not completely different. Anyway, WRONG. CHICKEN LIVERS. FUCK. Also, that chicken noodle soup you ate last week? Chicken hearts. Since then I've implemented a don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to dinner. Also religion. And sexual orientation... And country of origin, fuck it I don't want to know anything.

It turns out I like poetry. Russian poetry, anyhow. Anna Akhmatova is like the Russian Emily Dickinson, except I don't want to curb stomp her for being so fucking whiny. Instead of being afraid of people and then complaining about always being alone, Anna Akhmatova takes everything with a rather gigantic grain of salt, which is, really, the Russian way. Them bitches pickle everything. I shouldn't have said anything about Emily Dickinson, I get so infuriated thinking about her. What, you're sad because you were ill for most of your young life? You've caught the melancholy, have you? Don't like going to parties, because you'd rather sit around thinking about our fruitless struggle against mortality? Fuck you! Anna Akhmatova survived war, revolution, and a totalitarian regime, you feeble little shit! Her first husband was executed by the secret police, and her second husband and son were sent to the gulag to die! Jesus. Americans. The lace rips on their petticoat and the whole world has gone to shit. Lord...

I saw an advertisement on a street sign about someone who called himself a "touché master." I can't tell you how interested I am to know what that means, but I can tell you I'm not interested to call and find out in case he really meant "rape master."

Russia has a very cash-based economy. It makes things difficult sometimes because cashiers rarely have change. And then they yell at you because YOU didn't have the foresight to find some. And then you try to tell them that you don't really need exact change, I could do with 40 instead of 45, or maybe even thirty if you have it. I don't have anything, don't bring me those big bills, this is a nice store, you come and make trouble and ask for more money, I don't have money, you need pay smaller bills! I'm not trying to make trouble, and I don't want MORE money, I said LESS money, give me LESS money! NO YOU GIVE ME LESS MONEY! I CAN'T GIVE YOU LESS MONEY! THEN WHY YOU MAKE TROUBLE! FUCK IT I DON'T EVEN WANT THE GODDAMN TRAIL MIX ANYMORE.

Everyday it's a constant battle trying to convince my host dad that I actually WANT to hang out with the cat. You know he scratches? Yes, but only if you make him angry. He's always angry, he gets under your feet and what to do, you fall, why you like this? I like cats, I have cats at home. CATS? Two cats, okay, maybe they are friends and leave you alone. No I have four cats. FOUR CATS? That is not your home, that is their home, where do you live? I... what? You cannot live with four cats, they sit on everything and eat your food. I can control where they sit and eat. No, you must have dogs, you cannot control cats. Well, either way, I want Rizhik in the room. Well, either way, he will make you sad, and just know I told you this.

One last thing, vodka has GOT to be stronger in Russia. It's almost been a week, and I am still firmly resolved in never drinking again. Well. Maybe vodka goodbye forever.